


Stuck Down The Wrong Rabbit Hole

by nostalgic90s



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood and Gore, Character Death, F/M, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Past Relationship(s), Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 09:16:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19787863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgic90s/pseuds/nostalgic90s
Summary: Joker has really done it this time.This isn’t petty robbery where the occasional pedestrian gets caught in the crossfire – no, this is deliberate homicide.Batman tracks down an elusive enemy to Wayne Manor and as a result, painful memories resurface and old wounds are reopened.





	Stuck Down The Wrong Rabbit Hole

Joker has really done it this time.

This isn’t petty robbery where the occasional pedestrian gets caught in the crossfire – no, this is deliberate homicide.

A murdered law enforcement official and a dying adolescent.

In the corner of a dusty old study, a child is weeping into his tiny hands. He hiccups and peeks through his fingers, shuddering at the horrific sight before him.

Out of all the atrocious cruelties Gotham bore witness to, this was the worst by far. 

“With the exception of one,” Batman murmurs quietly. Red optics scour the room and a booted heel kicks an overturned chair out of the way. Ethereal remnants of the past resurface in the mind, emphasizing a promising future between an affluent doctor and his blushing bride-to-be. Something faint, and throbbing, radiates underneath the black chest plate.

The sudden noise makes the kid jolt in place and he looks up, turning his teary blue eyes on the masked stranger. “DON’T KILL ME!” he screeches.

Brusque and intolerant, Batman retorts, “I’m not here to kill you.” The search resumes and the figure steps over crumbling books. Some are children’s fairy tales, others are medical encyclopedias, long forgotten, and left to decay in a spacious tomb.

The shoddy retinal projection system, courtesy of former tech developer Lucius Fox, hones in on a faded heat signature across the room. Red optics flicker towards a body sprawled out on the floor, positioned in front of a bay window.

Commissioner James Gordon.

Although the place was the very definition of turmoil and disarray, it would appear a recent struggle took place. The curtains and lavish tapestries are missing from their hooks, and there’s blood splatters all over the walls.

James, a fit man for his age, imperceptibly convulses – postmortem spasms.

Batman eyes the deep gash on James’s neck. Judging by the superfluous amount of blood pooling around the body, his carotid arteries must've been severed. It takes a certain amount of expertise to land such a strike and the whole _drowning-in-ones-own-blood_ thing is messy to boot. A classic death trope and one of Joker’s favorites.... Demise is fast but not painless, and Batman feels something indicative to grief, only just.

Heat sensors in the cowl go off, indicating the presence of a third person. Batman turns and looks towards a mangled desk and bookcase. Somebody is lying on their backside with their feet bound together and their arms splayed out; crucifixion comes to mind.

Cautious steps carry Batman closer. The moonlight filtering in from the window reveals a face covered in white greasepaint and cherry painted lips. The body is dressed in a garish purple suit, definitely Joker’s signature style.

No, wait… Too short to be Joker.

Closer inspection reveals the deceased is a young girl. Oh, shit. It’s Harvey Dent’s daughter, then that must mean-

“Mmmf,” the _dead’_ girl whimpers and her fingers wiggle around unloaded firearms duct taped to her wrists. There’s a gaping hole on the right side of her chest and from it, a wellspring of blood flows steadily.

Batman pieces everything together quickly. Joker kidnaps Harvey Dent’s children and brings them to Wayne Manor. Sadistic incentive leads Joker to dress the girl in familiar apparel, followed by taping unloaded guns to her wrists. Whoever entered the manor before Batman would’ve been aware of the life-and-death situation and in this case, open fire is the appropriate response. James Gordon mistook the young girl for Joker and shot her – it wasn’t a kill shot, but she’s bleeding out fast.

“Hold on…” Batman kneels beside the dying child and he pushes her shirt up, revealing the gunshot wound in her pectoralis major. A silver flask appears, and gloved fingers twist the cap off. There’s a hasty exchange of alcohol and saliva, followed by a deep gulp. Without warning, Batman tips the flask over the wound and pours alcohol over it.

The girl jolts and yelps, “AHH!!!”

“That hurt, I know… But hurt means you’re alive. This will hurt too, okay?” Batman tosses the empty container aside, followed by a brief search through a utility belt. A hand curls around a plastic covered instrument.

“What are you doing to my sister?!” squeaks the traumatized boy.

“I have to get the bullet out or she’ll die from infection, or bleed to death, whichever comes first.” Batman retrieves a pair of forceps and peels the protective covering off – the surgical instrument is already sterilized.

Having left the corner, the boy inches closer to his whimpering sibling and he sits near the dark figure whose glowing red eyes unnerve him. “W-we were supposed to be playing a game… It was an accident, h-he didn’t mean to shoot her…”

Recognizing her brother’s voice, the girl turns her pale blue orbs towards his direction. She tries to speak, but her words are inaudible. Pain and blood loss have stripped her of her voice.

Batman seizes the opportunity of distraction by jabbing the forceps into her wound, forcefully spreading the flesh apart in search of the bullet.

Excruciating pain shoots up through her chest and spine, making her head explode into blinding whiteness. She isn't entirely without a voice because a bloodcurdling scream follows soon after. She starts writhing underneath Batman’s grip, forcing a tighter hold over her shoulder.

“S-stop it, you’re hurting her!” the boy grabs at Batman’s arm and tries to pry him away from his sister. 

Disregarding the kid’s protests, Batman shakes him off and confronts the grisly task. “Kid I’m going to need your help. To your left there’s a work desk, open the bottom drawer and grab the butane lighter. It’s got a red handle, can’t miss it.”

Sniffling, the teary-eyed boy nods and shuffles over to the desk. Batman is a good guy… Right? Father despises the caped crusader, but Batman has taken down more crooks then the respected Judge Dent and Commissioner James Gordon combined. He _has_ to be good. He’s trying to save his sister and stop the scary clown.

Speaking of which…

The boy feels the blonde hairs on his neck rise. He yanks the bottom drawer open and spots a butane lighter inside. He clutches the red handle, removes the object, and rushes back over to Batman’s side.

Seconds after Batman plunged the surgical instrument inside her, the girl passes out from debilitating agony. Her eyes are partially open, revealing only the whites, and her mouth gapes.

Ideally, saving another person’s life should take place in a hospital setting. However, they’re in a neglected manor where resources are limited. That, and there’s a lunatic running amok. Batman rips the chartreuse tie from the girl’s neck, bundles it up into a ball, and uses it like gauze. He dabs away the blood, while angling his wrist and digging the instrument deeper.

That’s when the tip of the forceps touch something – a distinct clicking noise ensues.

Metal against metal.

“Found it.” Batman clenches the bullet between serrated tips and slowly withdraws. There’s a grunt of acknowledgment when the boy sits down nearby.

“What do you need the lighter for?” the child inquires, genuine curiosity and unease in his voice.

“I’ll show you.” Batman discards the forceps and bullet, only to remove the lighter from the boy’s grip. Keeping the lighter in his right hand, Batman reaches down towards the left side of the utility belt before furnishing a combat knife.

The kid turns sickly pale at the sight of the weapon. “If you h-hurt her, my d-daddy is gonna-”

“Shut up,” Batman warns. “You’re trying my patience…” Harvey Dent, a pretentious asshole that always resorts to threats; looks like the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

Igniting the lighter, Batman positions the metal blade over the flame. There’s no more alcohol in the flask, or else the blade would’ve been sterilized; proper medical procedures are a luxury nobody can afford right now. The knife heats up and he suddenly presses the glowing red blade against her skin.

Blood and flesh sizzle underneath the hot object.

One second.

The rancid aroma of burning flesh and hair emanate from the wounded area.

Two seconds.

The girl scrunches her mouth and nose, as though in discomfort. She doesn’t stir.

Batman pulls the knife away and re-heats it. Then, the process repeats again, never going over a two-second period; brief intervals ensure none of the healthy tissue is damaged.

Attentive eyes watch Batman and his sister. The boy is relieved to see her chest rising and falling at a steady pace. He sighs softly and mumbles, “I knew it… I always knew you were the good guy.”

The comment elicits a scowl from Batman, who decides not to address the boy’s fictitious statement. After successfully cauterizing the wound, Batman sets the knife down and out of impulse, makes a grab for the silver flask.

“I-…I’m-…”

Batman and the little boy turn their heads and look down.

With eyes fastened shut, the girl is struggling to speak. She mouths the words, trying desperately to force out sound.

“What?” Batman leans closer.

“I’m cold…,” she whispers.

* * *

***Notice***

To experience this segment of this chapter to the fullest, I suggest turning on some background music. The song is called [Sacrifice ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tpa0uDCHuY8)by Steve Jablonsky, it's a youtube link.

***Onward with the story***

* * *

_“I’m cold, Daddy…”_

_“Hang on, Bruce.”_

_The raven-haired boy reaches for his father but his vision is blurry and his strength is dwindling by the second. He misses the elder’s sleeve and his arm falls against the cold, concrete surface._

_“HANG ON!” The man shouts while pressing two bloody hands over Bruce’s open chest wound. He applies pressure and notices the inconsistent breathing patterns. He can literally see the life fading from his son’s eyes; those remarkable blue orbs lack luster. “Martha?!” he glances around for his wife, only to see her on the ground, huddling against a brick wall._

_“This isn’t happening,” Martha chants, indistinctly rocking back and forth. “This… isn’t happening… Please tell me it isn’t happening Thomas!”_

_Thomas wants to scream at his wife, however, he tries to stay calm and maintain some level of control. “It **is** happening Martha. I need you to go get help.”_

_Martha raises her head, tears and makeup smudges across her face. “W-where should I-”_

_A question?_

_At a time like this?_

_Are you fucking serious?!_

_Thomas lost it then, his anger and frustration getting the better of him. “Go back to the theater! Go find a police officer! Call an ambulance! CHRIST ALMIGHTY DON’T JUST SIT THERE!”_

_Martha sobs hysterically and she uses the last of her strength and willpower to climb to her feet. Her heels can be heard as she dashes down the street, desperately calling for help._

_“It’s going to be okay,” Thomas says, while turning his attention back to Bruce-_

_Bruce’s eyes are closed. There’s a trail of blood trickling from his mouth, staining his chin and jaw._

_“Bruce?” Thomas’s heart stops and his eyes widen. “BRUCE?!” He presses two fingers against Bruce’s neck, but he doesn’t sense a pulse. He immediately tilts the boy’s head back and proceeds to give him cardiopulmonary resuscitation. He breathes into his son’s mouth, two times, before placing both hands over Bruce’s chest. He counts thirty chest compressions, followed by two rescue breaths. He resumes chest compressions to try and restore circulation._

_All attempts to revive Bruce are in vain._

_The boy isn’t responding. His chest doesn’t rise, and his pulse remains undetectable._

_Martha and a GCPD police officer trek through the dark alleyway._

_“Thomas?” Martha approaches her husband and son._

_Thomas cradles Bruce in his arms. He holds him tight, and holds him close, so that Bruce’s ear could be next to his heart. When Bruce was a newborn, Thomas would often rock him to sleep by having him listen to his heartbeat; it always lulled his beautiful son to sleep._

_At the sound of his wife’s voice, Thomas lifts his head and turns to look at her. Tears are flowing down his face and his mouth is stained with Bruce’s blood._

_Husband and wife lock eyes and in that moment, Martha knows her son is deceased. Terrible anguish struck her heart and she felt a dreadful ache as if something was being torn inside her. The woman keels, and she bends over, screaming and cursing and damning everything and everyone in her life for taking Bruce away – her son, her precious baby boy. He’s gone forever, and the light he brings with him is extinguished for good._

_“NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!” Martha wails._

_Thomas buries his face into his son’s chest to silence his cries._

* * *

From the darkest part of the room, a familiar voice purrs, “Darling~”

Batman whips around and raises an arm to block the impending attack but it’s too late. He comes face-to-face with a steel crowbar. 

Everything goes black afterwards.


End file.
